Felix passed his hand over his forehead. His face was pale.
‘This business is too much for me,’ he said. ‘I wish to heaven I was out of it.’
‘Then help me to get you out of it. Think. Is there any one your friend knows that he might have written to?’
Felix remained silent for some moments.
‘There is only one man,’ he said at length in a hesitating voice, ‘that I know he is friendly with—a Mr. Percy Murgatroyd, a mining engineer who has an office in Westminster. But I don’t for one moment believe he had anything to say to it.’
‘Let me have his name and address, anyway.’
‘Four St. John’s Mansions, Victoria Street,’ said Felix, on referring to an address book.
‘You might write it down, if you please, and sign it.’
Felix looked up with a smile.
‘You generally write notes yourself, I should have thought?’